She sits, observing with calm eyes like those
     that saw the rise of Sumer and Akkad.
Her stride, like that which trod out Uruk’s streets,
     regal, proud, though used to briefer ways.

Her arms, her hands, that pierced and parted
     and pulled, that plowed the Sealand’s surf --
     her smooth shoulders slicing the rising Tigris’ wide flow --
     a flash of polished copper, the shadowed places of her underparts.

Her hair, her neck, her face -- shall I touch them?
Shall I taste her lips, drink her breath,
     feel the blood beneath her flesh
     feel her flood of heat suffuse through me?

To stare again upon the stele of Mesopotamia.
To stir again, that star long since fallen into dust.
Shall Sargon stand and make this one his own?



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